Genius --- Multi-Fandom x Reader
by Scoffman
Summary: It's Cicada season.
1. Preface and Introduction

A Brief Author's Note:

 **This story is not "interactive." I will not be taking suggestions as for what a reader believes _should_ happen. I didn't even know that was a thing, to be honest, but apparently it's somewhat common in second person stories...? Neither will there be explicit content of sexual nature; I'm inept at writing such things and I find it to be a bit counterproductive to the theme that I'm trying to convey. **

_The goal of this story is to accurately display various types of intelligence, and their effects upon a persona - as well as vice versa._

In order to do this, intellectual characters have been pulled from several fandoms. Some have a large fan base, and others have close to nothing. My apologies if one character you feel should have been included isn't in this - I feel that I've selected the correct characters to portray the various types of intellect of which I can discern. With that said, I will include a list of the shows (yes, shows; no literature, unfortunately) that characters have been pulled from.

Fandoms (in order of appearance) ::  
Gravity Falls  
Ed, Edd, n' Eddy  
Dexter's Laboratory  
We Bare Bears  
Over the Garden Wall  
Rick and Morty

Romance isn't as big of a plot device in this story as you might expect from an x reader story. Emphasis will be put on various other forms of relationships, though in most of the alternate endings, it will be included, save for a few in which it could be implied at most.

Should you proceed, I hope that you enjoy.

* * *

The heart of the town was amiable, even on the days in which likewise disposition had forsaken the townsfolk. The time in question had a bias for falling upon Monday. Nary a soul in the sleepy township cherished the inception of the day. In fact, here seemed to revolve in a circle of trepidation, with Monday residing as the ever-dreaded outset point. No person was eager to be inaugurated under the work week. Yet it was understood that work had to begin at some point, and it was best to opt to do it now, so that the eventual retirement would be met with a sense of satisfaction of another week gone. The town itself, however, seemed unaltered by the sour behavior of its people. The sun rose over the treetops as always, spreading its golden beams through the gilded, needle-laden branches of the pine trees. The light trickled down like water, causing unsystematic patches of luminescence to drip towards the ground. Dew formed on each blade of grass, acting as a magnifying glass and mirror for the world around it. The droplets seemed unaware that they had formerly existed as, and now co-resided with their cousin, frost.  
The more condensed substance weighed down the plants and objects they clung to so desperately, turning their victims brittle and cold. They served as a sort of mnemonic to call upon the already fading memories of a winter now resonating upon its last note. The season had passed, but the trails it left had lingered longer than expected. Nature now laid in a state of anticipation, avidly awaiting the arrival of a tenderer season whilst enduring the legacy of that which had no desire to depart.  
In this season especially, it was no easy feat to remove oneself from their bed. Yet you, spurred on by the encouraging words of your mother, had only just managed to do so. The morning routine progressed in its usual blur, leaving a rather unremarkable set of memories in its wake. You were wrapped in a thick jacket and ushered out the door, your backpack slung over one shoulder and wonder bread lunch box in hand.  
The giant yellow bus was almost mystical. It resembled a golden chariot of a monster coming to whisk you away. The stairs leading into it were of such height that you had to lift your knees nearly to your chest in order to ascend them. It was a bit warmer inside, but hardly so. The metal walls of the vehicle weren't the most pleasant thing to come in contact with, but you were forced to abide by the unwritten laws of the bus. You were the first to claim a new seat, and the other chairs were all occupied. Thus you earned a companion.  
There was no conversing between the two of you. The kid was alienated to you, just as the other passengers were. It never occurred to you that perhaps _you_ were the one estranged from _them._ But that was of no matter. Your participation in their ritualistic morning socialization was never something to be counted upon. Although there wasn't much of it to begin with - the noise on the bus during the morn was nothing compared to the rowdiness it possessed throughout the afternoon; children simply had more energy during the later portion of the day - it was still relatively simple for a stranger to look upon the students within the bus and single you out. There was always the usual saying to use as a scapegoat, which stated that you 'weren't a morning person,' but coming from a child, it was difficult to accept at face value.  
You shifted awkwardly as the person next to you continued to talk with someone in the chair behind you. The air was gelid, and the sun was doing little to heat things. You bundled up in your jacket, seeking warmth to protect you. A thought graced your mind, making you realize that it was complete nonsense for it to be so sunny and cold simultaneously. Luckily, you were spared from going insane by the reactions of the other children. They too were cold, all pale-faced with red noses. Knowing that the effect had carried through to others was reassuring. It wasn't just you; madness hadn't taken a hold of you yet.  
But sometimes it seemed as if that's exactly what it'd done. You were constantly drowsy, deprived of the sleep that you were entitled to since birth. The lack of rest had led to rather disturbing happenings. You began to see things that weren't there, and depressing thoughts had managed to work their way into your mind. Yet it was the reason for your poverty of sleep that was just as, if not more, disturbing than the inherent lack of it to begin with.  
Your nightly pilgrimage to peace had recently become syncopated and riddled with holes. The familiar serenity of nothing had diminished as it became filled with _something._ It was something horrible – something abhorrent and loathsome – yet this something had managed to elude the grasp of your conscious mind. Each night you awoke in a cold sweat and practically writhing in displeasure, yet the content of your sweven faded so rapidly that you were unable to grasp it only minutes after coming to.  
Yet there was something different today. It was early this morning when you awoke, perhaps around 4 am. The fear and adrenaline you'd woken to were just as prevalent as usual. You'd shot up in bed, staring at the wall adjacent you. The linens were a tangled mess around your form, only becoming more so as you pulled your legs closer in a more compact position. The small, hardy organ within your chest was beating at a remarkable pace, and with each centimeter the liquid shifted in your veins the more recollections of what your nightmare entailed vanished.  
Your mind was left reeling, and it desperately clung to the faint traces of what had happened. Every attempt before this had turned up for naught, but this time a singular element endured.  
Inertia shifted your weight forwards as the bus came to halt in front of another house. You watched as more children boarded the bus – three of them. One dark-haired and shock-headed, the other two fair. The figures were enough to attain your attention for a few moments, but you soon became lost in thought once more as the bus began to move again. The kid sitting aside you shifted as the newcomers moved past. You opted to look the other direction.  
"What's that?"  
"Hm?"  
"On your hand."  
You looked down at the dark shape you'd drawn on the back of your right hand. The triangle was vertically off-center and hurriedly constructed, with thick borders that were only just even. The apex touched the first knuckle of the middle finger, and the bottom line laid no more than an inch below it.  
"Nothing. I just got bored."  
"Oh."  
That was a lie. You didn't draw it from boredom. The shape was the only thing that remained of your nightmare, and you thought quickly upon catching it. Knowing good and well that the thought would be forgotten by sunrise, you'd shakily drawn it on your hand for reassurance. Of course you'd earned a gentle chastisement from your mother, but you were let off with a simple _don't do it again._  
Neither was it nothing, yet you weren't sure if it was something. There wasn't much clarity upon the image's conception, and the lack of it proved true even through the rest of the morning. The fear had long retreated with the knowledge that it – whatever it was – was merely a dream, and could not harm you. Of course, it could affect you by mercilessly waking you at ungodly hours, but you still retained hope that you'd soon earn a good night's sleep.  
The bus soon rolled to a stop at your elementary school. The usual crowd arose from their seats – including the child next to you and yourself. You shuffled into the small line, taking small, hesitant steps through the aisle. Although the bus was crowded with estranged youth, it was preferable to the chilled air of the outside.  
You unceremoniously jumped down the large steps with an almost groggy demeanor. The frigid atmosphere hit you with a sudden might that stole the air from your lungs and turned it into visible wisps before your eyes. Quickly breathing in, the cold flooded your lungs and stung your throat.  
The other children, with noses of carmine that turned into a flushed pink gradient over their cheeks, moved quickly as they entered the side entrance of the school. A teacher stood there – a tall adult that radiated a calm authority. She held the door open for the line of students that were eager to dispose themselves of the harsh yet oddly sunny conditions of the outdoors.  
A long exhale, and your breath billowed out – upwards.  
You hid the triangle by burying your hands in your pockets.  
If only you could hide the nightmares that easily.


	2. Introduction to Dipper

Dreams were odd, fleeting things. They could be sweet and pleasant, or horrifying and abhorrent. Some lasted moments and were nothing more than a scrap of some uncompleted thought conjured during the early stages of sleep. Others subsisted throughout the entire night, leading their viewer on a complex and intricate plot. There were dreams that wrapped around one's entire mind, smothering the outside world and luring them into the deep recesses of their own mind. Then existed the dreams that were hardly more than abstract lines behind one's eyelids, coming and going spontaneously without much warning, being by the millisecond.  
All of these were naturally-occurring forms of an active subconscious, and Dipper was well-acquainted with them even early in life. But before now, he had never undergone all of them in a single instant.  
Dreams were indeed curious things, and that was in part why Dipper was so taken with them. There was something fascinating about the very idea of a sweven – a world of imagination, where no laws or rules existed unless created by the dreamer. Of course, becoming lucid was difficult, and Dipper had never attained such an ability. However, he was gifted with a good memory, which allowed him to recall almost every detail from his dreams, – on the nights in which he did so – which was handy for scientific analysis in the waking world.  
But recently, that ability has been lost. Dipper would wake up in the middle of the night in a cold sweat, more terrified than he'd ever been in his life. His heart would beat at a breakneck pace, and the fine hair on the back of his neck would stand upright, synchronizing with a creeping feeling in his spine.  
But the content of his dream? He couldn't recall. This circumstance was something previously unknown to Dipper, as he'd never _not_ been able to remember what he was dreaming about, especially when the vision affected him so greatly. The gaping hole in his memory was frightening.  
Unbeknownst to him, there wasn't much to remember in the first place. Every possible form that a dream could assume occurred at once, and it would be an overload to any logical mind. That was the great thing about dreams – there was no logic. No rhyme nor reason motivated the blinding lights dancing behind Dipper's eyes, and no order existed to the flashing images of both foreign and familiar backgrounds alike. Memories mixed with random knowledge, some of which – _most_ of which – Dipper had yet to even learn. Shapes, colors, and shadows splayed out over a vast expanse of static and white noise while small pictures and symbols animated themselves in the void it left.  
It was nonsense – glorious nonsense, and it would never register in Dipper's head had he been awake.  
Yet, there was one thing that persisted. While everything shifted and churned about in a massive vat of disjointed and unrelated data, a singly persistent element remained among it all.  
It was cold. No, that wasn't it. Nothing in the dream was cold; temperature wasn't something that existed here. But yea, something _was_ cold, and it was touching his skin-  
Dipper's eyes flew open, and he was greeted with the sight of a crooked-toothed smile. Two brown eyes gazed down at him, their depths visibly filled with amusement even in the low light.  
"Mabel? What're you-"  
"Good morning, beautiful!"  
"Huh?"  
But she was out the door already, her delighted giggles rising through the hallways after the sound of her rapidly-fading footsteps.  
Dipper pushed himself up into a sitting position, the bed warm where he'd lain. His eyes were bleary with the remnants of sleep, and he rubbed them in an attempt to clear his vision. When his hands returned to his line of sight, he was greeted with dark marks on his index finger and thumb.  
This elicited a long, exasperated sigh that persisted throughout Dipper's journey to the bathroom. His groggy demeanor meant that he staggered the entire length of the hallway, but that was of no importance. Dipper knew good and well what Mabel did, but he still had to see just the amount of damage that was done.  
As it turns out, it wasn't as bad as Dipper had expected. Guerilla makeovers were something that Mabel was fond of, and it happened almost every other weekend. But this time she hadn't assaulted him with the works, as was her usual. This time she'd only utilized onyx lipstick, which she used to mark Dipper's eyes, in addition to coloring his eyelids, eyebrows, and lips. In addition she'd begun to doodle on his face, making random shapes along his cheeks and chin.  
But there was one thing that struck him, and brought back some faint recollection from his nightmare.  
A large, black triangle rested on the center of his forehead.


	3. Introduction to Edd

It was summer, and it was hot as hell. The air was thick and heavy with the warmth of a thousand suns – it was surely impossible for so much heat to come from one star millions of miles away. The orb seemed to take up the entire sky, its overbearing rays blinding anyone who dared to look up at it. The sky around it was pale in comparison, its cyan tint hardly even discernable. Indeed, comparing the weather to hell was fair, albeit commonplace. But there were times in which it seemed that the world outside actually _became_ hell, fusing with the earth's core and heating the pavement to the melting point.  
Of course, this was a ridiculous notion. Eddward had a very good understanding of tectonic plates and the basic manner of naturally-occurring subterranean happenings. But he also understood the value of a good hyperbole, and he did allow himself to indulge in imagination from time to time. More often than not, 'imagination' translated to daydreams in the realm of science-fiction, but this activity was not one that happened over an extended period of time, as Eddward could always rely on the massive pile of academic assignments to keep him occupied.  
Even when school ended, Eddward's parents spurred on his studies by signing him up for summer classes at nearby centers. Most of these establishments were accustomed to assisting children that were on the slow side of the spectrum, so it was quite a shock to see one of the brainy elite walk through their doors. Of course they wouldn't refuse service – Eddward's parents paid good money – and they taught the boy curriculum that should have been far over the head of any kid his age.  
Oddly enough, Eddward didn't just absorb the information he was presented. He expanded upon it. He was constantly thinking – if not over his latest class, then pondering over questions for which there was no clear answer. There were the classics that were proposed many times before; _Are we alone in the universe? What is the purpose of life? Is there a god?_ Then there were the lesser inquiries – lesser as in not commonly discussed, not lesser in importance. _Are there any moral facts? Is there any type of self-sustaining government that is immune to corruption, and can utopia eventually be reached? Why do some people prefer crunchy peanut butter while others enjoy smooth?_  
Yes, Eddward had many wonderful questions, and he never really stopped yearning for answers to them. That was why he studied for pleasure, even outside of school and summer classes. It was with this level of thought that Eddward was kept busy – and out of trouble, as his mother was fond of saying. It was also why he had no time to entertain the silly and illogical thought of the earth's crust fusing with its innermost point, nor it becoming one with hell, assuming that there was such a place. All of these thoughts were outlandish and impossible, so Eddward dismissed them without much thought.  
Or, that _would_ be the case, under normal circumstances.  
The pavement was scalding, and it was quite possibly the hottest thing that Eddward had ever had the displeasure of coming into contact with. He bit his lower lip in an attempt to hold back the natural effect of pain – tears. He wouldn't cry; he'd promised Stephen that he wouldn't. But his knees were scraped and bloodied, and Eddward's reluctance to remove them from the hot, gravelly surface of the road was only making it worse.  
The physical pain wasn't the worst of his distress, though. The most unbearable thing about the situation was watching Stephen move through the grass just beyond the curb, his eyestalks moving about at a lazy pace as he explored the new area, inspecting it inch by inch.  
Eddward supposed that he should just leave. Stephen was a domestic snail yearning to be free, and now he was finally back in his natural environment. He'd assimilate soon enough – or he'd be consumed, it was a natural process; Eddward had learned about it in summer classes last year. But it felt wrong to just abandon him in the wilderness. Reintroduction to the wild was supposed to be a slow and gradual process, and Eddward wasn't sure how well the creature would fare after years in captivity.  
But he didn't have a choice. Giving Stephen back to nature at a slow pace was obviously the ideal situation; unfortunately Eddward didn't have that time. In a few days he wouldn't be here anymore, and his life would be wandering down some unknown track, much as Stephen's was now. Like him, Eddward would be thrown into some new environment, and left to fend for himself.  
No one ever asked him if he wanted to move. He didn't get his input taken into consideration. If one had simply taken the time to ask him; to single him out and think about him and his desires for once.. _Hey, Eddward, this affects you greatly, and I was just wondering – what do you think about moving across the country?_ Yeah, that was a good question. One he'd answer with something like, _Gee whiz, this is rash, isn't it? America is a big country, and I don't fancy going from one extreme to another so quickly. May I have some time to think it over?_  
But really, was that too much to ask? Eddward wouldn't have near as much trouble coming to terms with the change if his opinion had been asked at least once. It occurred to him that his thoughts had _never_ been asked for on anything. His mother had enrolled him in summer classes without his input, and restrictions had been placed on his life without much consideration. This was just the first time that Eddward didn't completely agree with something that his parents seemed so keen on volunteering him for, and that realization hit him harder than it should have.  
Eddward struggled to his feet, squinting as he watched the waves of heat radiate from the black pavement of the road. They distorted the world beyond them, making its image shaky and unclear. Eddward wondered how Stephen would fare on his own in an environment so hot – the animal had been raised in air-conditioning, after all. But when he looked back to where he'd left him, Eddward found that the snail had already disappeared among the tall stalks of grass.  
The reality that he'd never see that kind, tender creature again donned upon Eddward with a vengeance, and this time a few tears did escape from his eyes. He brushed them away, trying to disregard his emotional attachment to his pet just as he'd attempted to ignore his bond to his home. He walked back indoors, going straight to the bathroom to fetch the first aid kit. He grabbed some Neosporin to assist with his scraped knees, focusing on the physical pain to ease that of his heart.  
Eddward was a mess, and he was acutely aware of that. There was some form of internal disgust directed towards himself, but above that there was sadness. Self-pity wasn't admirable, but he couldn't care less at the moment. He was being forced away from his home, destined to reside in some unfamiliar land, and he'd just given away his one and only pet. On top of that, Eddward wasn't getting any sleep. He was having these strange, recurring nightmares, though he always forgot what they were upon waking-  
Eddward stopped upon finding a triangular bandage. He stared at it for a few long moments, then folded it up and placed it in his pocket.


	4. Introduction to Dexter

A/N: _Oi, I'm used to being able to indent paragraphs. I might have to edit some things to make it more aesthetically pleasing. This appears abhorrent._

* * *

There was no better tool for a child to possess than imagination, and Dexter was an adherent to that notion. However, he couldn't say that he was ever fond of the striking amount of stupidity so frequently associated with – or, alternatively, brought forth by – creative thinking.  
Imagination was something that ran rampant in the uneducated. When one has no knowledge of even the most rudimentary laws of physics, it is disturbingly easy to assume that they do not apply to oneself. With a basic amount of initiative, it's not difficult to conjure up a pair of large, makeshift wings; and with a lack of education, one might just leap from a high point with them.  
Too much creativity with too little knowledge is dangerous and grossly commonplace – case in point, a certain fair-haired female whom happened to be closely related to Dexter – but the same principles apply for those in the opposite situation.  
By the time someone has studied enough to be great, they have become one of two things. The first and most common situation is that the individual has become institutionalized by the flawed education system, and they're rendered spineless, with a talent for following the orders of the bureaucrats above them. Unable to think for themselves, they're motivated purely by the thought of instant gratification. Intelligent – yes – but they're merely extensions of anyone whom possesses the wit or document to stand above them and place a shoe up their ass.  
As for those in the other category, they have grown too old and jaded to produce new, original thought. They may have dedicated their entire lives to some project, idea, or even an entire field of research, but as for extending beyond that? They're machines regurgitating variants of previously-used material. Utterly and totally hopeless.  
Luckily, Dexter was not old, nor spineless, nor stupid. An intelligent child, he was mentally mapping out circuitry from the moment of his very conception. He was quick, sharp, and imaginative; he was operating on a plane much higher plane than most adults, and he himself had only aged eight years.  
Dexter was keenly aware of his own superiority, and it was something that he was rather proud of. But unfortunately, there were instances in which that same vanity caused him grief.  
It was in the early hours of the morning when Dexter awoke. The house was silent in unison with the entire neighborhood. There was something almost perverse about being awake during this time; to break the sanctity of the peace that laid over the area like an invisible guardian. Even the small bugs outside – those that sung on a nightly basis – were quiet now, and what nocturnal animals resided in the area refrained from drawing any attention.  
Dexter was no nocturnal creature – in fact, he was an advocate of early bedtimes, as he required at least seven hours of sleep to function at optimal status – and he had no good excuse to be awake at such an ungodly hour.  
So, how did he wake up in the first place? Well, it was a rather unpleasant disturbance that stood between him and rest. The issue laid in a dream gone bad, though Dexter wasn't able to recall exactly where it had turned awry.  
Nightmares weren't something that Dexter had ever struggled with. He'd only ever had a handful, and he could still remember every minute detail that laid therein. They weren't your typical childhood dreams of being chased by a monster. No, Dexter never experienced such cliché visions. He dreampt of situations that truly deserved to be feared, like finding a miscalculation halfway through a string of equations nearly 100 pages in length. That was the real nightmare. The mere notion of so much wasted time and effort was enough to make Dexter cringe.  
But, if he was so adept at _not_ having night terrors, why was he sitting upright in a bed that now felt overwhelmingly hot, with the sheets strewn about his mattress in complete disorder? More importantly, why couldn't he remember what he was dreaming about? He'd only experienced it a few moments earlier, so what was up with the uncharacteristic rapid memory loss? Dexter changed the center of his focus from the infuriating lack of information to the silence that pressed down upon him. He could almost feel the quiet as it weighed down the air around him, turning the atmosphere into a palpable being that settled over his ears like thick earmuffs.  
A few moments passed in which Dexter observed it, taking in the area before deciding that he should fetch himself some water. With a heavy sigh he swung his legs over the side of the bed, sliding off it with ease. His feet hit the floor with a quiet thud, the carpet silencing any shifts in his center of balance. Dexter's steps were muffled by his fuzzy socks, which were thick and did an excellent job of keeping his toes warm.  
That, of course, was a priority in this household, as Mother enjoyed making the house as cold as possible during the night. Honestly, it felt like Siberia. Dexter believed that if absolute zero would be sustained anywhere, it would be in this building. He wouldn't put it past that woman to attain a thermostat reading in Kelvin.  
However, the cool air was refreshing after tossing and turning beneath the heavy blankets of his bed, which seemed like an over. Though the sweat had already dried from Dexter's hands and neck, he still felt that he needed to lower his internal body temperature. Nothing a glass of water couldn't help with.  
The distance from his room at the end of the upstairs corridor to the kitchen – which was located downstairs – was easily traversed. Dexter pulled a glass from the cupboard upon arriving, and turned on the faucet, filling it with water and not hesitating before taking a sip. He reached out with the opposite hand and turned the knob in the other direction, effectively closing the valve and ending the flow of the clear liquid.  
Ah, the glories of public-sourced water, unadulterated at that. Yes, Dexter was drinking from the tap. But honestly, he didn't care. Sure, he was only eight, but he was an extremely clever kid. It didn't even require an IQ above 140 to realize that bottled water was a waste of money. If someone cared to read the label and considered the practicality of what they were buying, they'd almost certainly be eager to find a plausible alternative. But who would be crazy enough to pay attention to what they're spending money on? Ridiculous.  
After Dexter had gulped down the liquid he walked back upstairs, entering the bathroom. He unceremoniously flipped on the lights before approaching the sink and turning on the water. His short height meant that he had to pull up a small footstool in order to reach, but Dexter didn't mind. He cupped his hands beneath the stream, filling his palms before bringing them to his face and splashing water upon himself. In his drowsiness Dexter had forgotten to remove his glasses, and now droplets of water cling to the lenses. He removed the spectacles and gently cleaned them with the hem of his shirt, then proceeded to set them on the counter as he splashed water onto his face once more.  
Dexter leaned over the counter in doing so, and when he pulled his head from the basin, he was greeted by his own reflection. Azure met azure as Dexter made eye contact with himself. His countenance wasn't the best, as he appeared exhausted. His face, which was youthful with his tender age, was pale and almost sickly. He looked pathetic, and it hurt Dexter's pride to see himself in such a manner. He appeared horrible, and for what? Wasn't he supposed to be the master of his own mind?  
Dexter quickly grabbed a towel and dried his himself, replacing his glasses to his face. His hair was a damp crimson mop atop his head, his bangs falling into his eyes. He paid it no mind as he exited the bathroom and walked down the hall, now feeling almost _too_ cold, and hollow internally.  
Dexter was silent as he entered the space of his room, his mind returning to the vague and mysterious content of his dream. Some abstract thought came to him and his mind labeled it as important, though he had no idea as to why. Too caught up in his groggy state to process it efficiently, he settled for grabbing a dry-erase marker and drawing a certain geometrical shape on the blackboard he typically used for equations. Reassured that he'd be able to think clearer in the morning, and vowing to think over it then, Dexter crawled back into the still-warm bed and proceeded to get what sleep he could with however much time remained until dawn.


	5. Introduction to Chloe

Anemic light reflected from the glossy surface of thick, warped glass lenses, seemingly a liquid confined within the bold peripheries of plastic carmine frames which held considerable girth. The luster shifted with the small refinements of the head, the fluidity transforming dramatically and turning off-kiltered with the slight tilt. A prolonged exhale emanated from the owner of the glasses; an obvious sign of weariness.  
 _"So today we're going over the Greek philosopher known as Pythagoras of Samos. He was influential in the late 6_ _th_ _century, B.C., but unfortunately most of the things we know about him were contrived after his death."_  
A deep inhalation, and another exhalation. The glare of the glasses shifted in a scrolling motion, but vanished in a millisecond with a sharp upturn of the chin. The chocolate eyes behind the lenses redirected their attention from the screen to the digital clock on the wall.  
2 a.m.  
It was too goddamn early for this.  
Chloe looked at her laptop, which was opened to the Wikipedia page of Pythagoras. The jaundiced voice of her snarky Philosophy professor played from her recorder. She was reviewing the lesson from today in order to prepare for an upcoming exam, which would undoubtedly be merciless.  
Out of all of her classes, Philosophy was the most difficult. But it was an _elective,_ for Christ's sake. Chloe didn't realize that her professor was a socially-blunted, scathing bastard with a knack for screwing students over. If only she'd known what she was in for – she'd have chosen some fine arts class.  
Maturity was never a trait that was questioned when one looked at Chloe. She was perfectly fine at university. She did more than hold her own; she was actually in the upper part of her class. All of her professors were keenly aware of her academic capability, and appeared to regard her as an equal to her twenty-something classmates.  
It was her aforementioned twenty-something classmates who considered her inferior. For most of them it was as if they were condescending to hang around her. That was understandable, Chloe supposed. Who would want a twelve-year old at a frat party? But was it too much to ask for a simple heads-up about a certain class from her own roommate, with whom she shared a major?  
When she was only a bit younger, her parents and high school teachers painted college in a fabulous light. Going to university at such a tender age was obviously a great achievement, and Chloe certainly had the potential to do so. However, no one told her that going to school would mean residing in a living hell for the next eight years that it would take for her to attain a doctorate. No one mentioned that the other students would be cold and standoff-ish, and no one mentioned that she would be up at such an ungodly hour in order to memorize enough information to pass a ridiculous test.  
Chloe closed the laptop without turning it off, effectively putting it to sleep. She supposed that she should do that as well, seeing as how she had a class in six hours. Signing up for a course with lectures held at 8 a.m. Another mistake.  
It should be easier for her, Chloe thought as she changed into her pajamas. She was younger than everyone else by a wide margin, and her lack of pubescent hormones meant a timely release of melanin, and thus a restful sleep. But that didn't mean anything when you were making it to bed this late. Besides, Chloe's young age would be her downfall. She'd been told that puberty was perhaps the most awkward and confusing time of a person's life; and she'd be going through it whilst juggling a host of exceedingly difficult classes.  
This was disenchanting, but Chloe knew that she'd be able to _bear_ it. At present she just had to attempt to not think about the mountain of work that laid afore her – she'd refrain from thinking about anything, actually. Now she could sleep, and rest for the busy day that was rapidly approaching. Without much further contemplation the girl slipped beneath the soft blankets of her bed and turned to one side, curling into the fetal position and relaxing as she began to doze off.

"Chloe?"  
"Hm…."  
"Chloe, what're you doing?"  
"H-Huh….?"  
"Look, kid, this is weird, even for you."  
Chloe opened her eyes slowly, forced to struggle against their immense weight in order to do so. She was perplexed to find that she was no longer in her comfy bed, but rather on the floor, which was considerably less pleasant. The cool tile was tough and unforgiving beneath her back, on which she was lain. Her legs were straight, feet flexed upwards and heels together. Her arms were stiff at her side, hands flattened with her fingers together and palms against the floor.  
Upon awakening Chloe allowed the muscles in her arms and legs to relax – then it occurred to her that it was highly unlikely to be totally unconscious in such a tensed position. She pushed herself up into a sitting position, holding back a groan from her stiff muscles. Her roommate stood above her, green eyes cast downwards with an inquisitive expression.  
"Eileen?" Chloe muttered as she rose to her knees. "Agh… What time is it?"  
"It's three in the morning," the older girl responded as she brushed a bit of her roughly chin-length brown hair from her eyes.  
"Are you just now getting back here?" Chloe inquired.  
"Yeah. Unlike you, I don't have classes at eight in the morning. And we were short-handed at work today, so I stayed late. What the hell are you doing? It's way too early for you to be pulling this weird shit." Eileen made a wide gesture with her arms, staring at the floor around Chloe, "I know you sleep walk and stuff, but what's all this?"  
"Hm?" Chloe turned, surveying the floor about her in response to her roommate's inquiry. She was surprised to find dark markings on the tile forming an odd type of circle with a large, black triangle; the center of which she had been laying mere moments earlier.


	6. Introduction to Wirt

The room carried the scent of hand sanitizer and pencil shavings. The combination was perhaps a bit offbeat in comparison to the familiar comforts of home, but it was a mixture that was easy to grow accustomed to. It was better by far than the generic air freshener the janitors were fond of using in the hallways; it was implemented as a measure to lower the chances of an illness from spreading to the entire school population – mainly during flu season. But, notwithstanding the clashing scents – the two which were most prevalent from the poor boy's seat in nearby proximity to the threshold of the room's singly door – Wirt could still detect the faint traces of pumpkin, which was an once alienated element only introduced by the kind presence of Mrs. Dawkins.  
The chilled air filling the space washed through Wirt in waves with the intervals in which the A/C engaged and rested. He was unfortunate enough to be placed beneath the cruel metal vent which made his person so tortuously gelid, a cool plastic tube grasped loosely in his hands and sleeves scraping his fingertips, yet he received no relief from the corridor beyond the almighty threshold, which acted as an invisible barrier to warmth, but permeable to scent and vision.  
"-and this one is an A. You're going to hold down your first and second fingers…"  
Wirt glanced up at Mrs. Dawkins when she began to review the notes to the song. He copied the position her fingers were in, glancing down to his own dull recorder. He pressed his fingertips against the openings of the hollowed tube so that when he removed them small rings would remain embossed in his skin, tinged a faint pink that faded rapidly in a manner of mere moments.  
Wirt gripped the fabric of his sleeves, placing the flute-like instrument in his lap before raising his hands to his lips, then turning them inwards, towards him, and exhaling through his throat in an attempt warm up the frozen digits. He loved Mrs. Dawkins, she was an excellent music teacher. But did she really have to keep the room so cold all the time? It was going to put him to sleep – god knows Wirt needed it, seeing as how he wasn't getting near enough due to some unsavory nightmares-  
"Psst. Wirt," a low murmur came from nearby.  
Wirt glanced in the vicinity of the noise, and found a fellow classmate staring at him in a questioning manner. He paused to look at Mrs. Dawkins, who was a bit of a stickler about talking – perhaps that was one of the reasons he was fond of her class. But she was preoccupied with writing on the board situated at the front of the arrayed chairs, in which Wirt resided in the back.  
"Hm?"  
"Okay, do you remember what that note is – the bottom one?"  
"That's a G."  
"Oh, right. Thanks."  
"Sure."  
Wirt glanced back to the staff which was outlined on the dry-erase board in wide black tape. Mrs. Dawkins was writing on it now – a C, then a B, and another C-  
"How do you finger that again?"  
"Huh?"  
"G. What buttons do you press again?"  
"Oh," Wirt picked up his recorder and proceeded to place his fingers in the correct position. "They're not buttons, but it's like this-"  
"Thanks!" The brown and shaggy-haired boy grinned as he assimilated the fingering.  
"Yeah, sure." Wirt looked away from Jason once again, this time shifting a bit in his seat. He disposed his attention to Mrs. Dawkins once more, watching with interest as she pulled her phone from her pocket. The woman was never one to adhere to the use of a cellular device during class, and seeing her with the phone made for an odd sight. But her purpose soon became clear when she began to play a recording of the song they were studying. Wirt was able to follow the rise and fall of the smooth notes, but there was one detail that he couldn't help but notice.  
It wasn't being played on a recorder.  
This of course was not to insinuate that the foreign instrument was bad by any means. In fact, Wirt found himself enjoying it far more than the light, airy sound of the cheap instrument that he currently wielded. The warm tune filled his ears with a light pressure that made him feel almost giddy – something seemed to respond to the song, it was as if he was hearing for the first time; but really _hearing,_ like it was the first time he'd listened to actual, real music.  
Unfortunately, it was over before Wirt was able to really appreciate it. The easiest excerpt of a more advanced song was all that the class was currently covering – 5th grade music curriculum wasn't meant to be on par with a classical song's difficulty level. The brevity turned Wirt's ecstasy into crestfallen dismay as he realized that it was only a cruel tease.  
"-and that was Auld Lang Syne, as performed by a clarinet." Mrs. Dawkins elaborated as she continued on with the lesson.  
A clarinet.  
That's what Wirt needed; a clarinet.  
The remainder of the lecture was lost as Wirt daydreamed about how he'd obtain one of those lovely instruments, and what it would look like – a deep black, with keys of silver and wood of such caliber that his tone would be smoother than silk. He could almost hear the music now, and he tapped his foot along to an imaginary beat while he absentmindedly scribbled small triangles in the notebook he'd previously been copying the sheet music onto.


	7. Introduction to Rick

"Hey, where are we goin'?"  
"Bird World."  
"The squanch are we going there for? Those uptight mothersquanchers aren't gonna help us!"  
"Would you shut the fuck up and let me drive? Your panicking isn't helping us outrun the stiffs."  
"What's the use of outrunnin' them if we're going to squanchin' Bird Wor-"  
Rick tore his gaze away from the galaxy in front of him, glaring at the cat-like creature over his shoulder. His visage held no trace of joviality – not that it was ever prone to doing so – and his eyes held a cold, abrasive fury that was able to silence any vexation.  
"Bird World is the only planet close enough for us to reach. We're almost out of fuel, and I'm not going to aimlessly float around this trashy piece of space waiting for the feds to get us because you're too good for Bird World. We can claim sanctuary there, and at least we'll live to see another fucking day. I'd suggest you get your ass off your high horse and deal with it, because it's this or death."  
With that the man returned to manning the controls of his spacecraft, adjusting the angle at which the vessel was approaching the planet. He heaved a sigh and moved a tab across a slide in small increments, gradually increasing the speed. Rick glanced into the rearview mirror and out to adjust it. He caught a glimpse of himself as he did so.  
He was young. Too young for this. Too young to be running from the intergalactic police. Too young to die. He was twenty-six, for god's sake. He still had a lot of life ahead of him; a lot of work still had to be done. He couldn't – _wouldn't_ – die now, not when he had the entire multiverse in front of him waiting to be explored and exploited.  
Then he saw Squanchy. The odd, rough little cat-alien he'd caught trafficking drugs to Gazorpazorp. Not that Rick cared much – he'd been involved in the black market as well – but the feds certainly did. Apparently there was some major conflict happening on Gazorpazorp which caused their government to shatter. The influx of illegal activity that ensued certainly wasn't helping to stabilize the area, and the police were really cracking down on smugglers traveling to and from the region.  
Rick pushed the mirror once again, replacing it to its proper position.  
"Do you even have a plan for what we're supposed to do once we get to squanchin' Bird World?"  
"Relax." Rick muttered with a roll of his eyes, "When you're running for your life, you have to take things day by day, minute by minute."  
"Rick?"  
"Hm."  
"That's the biggest load of bullshit I've ever heard."  
Oddly enough, Rick found a wry smile spreading across his face. He took his safety belt – that useless contraption that he never used on a regular basis – and buckled it together over his chest. "Strap yourself in, fuckwad. I don't have enough fuel to pull up and land, so we're going to have to eject after reentry."  
Squanchy muttered a long string of profanity. Most of it consisted of the word 'squanch,' but the irritated vehemence of the utterances left no room for interpretation.  
Rick stared at his console, which was lit up with messages from his many adversaries. The police were on his tail now, but there was nothing they could do. He was going in too fast, and further pursuit would only lead to those fuckers going through a horrid reentry as well, which was something that they preferred to not do without contacting the government of the planet beforehand.  
This was going to be a rough entry at that. Rick wasn't even sure if his craft would be able to survive it. Of course, he didn't tell Squanchy that – the creature would only panic more, and that wouldn't help the situation at all. Though, he was sure that the creature would find out soon enough, seeing as how the temperature was already increasing and the ship was beginning to tremble.  
Squanchy screamed, and Rick gripped the edges of the triangular ejection button.


	8. 3301flfdgd

October was always a pleasant season. It was the heart of autumn, and the world seemed keen on showing it. The trees had donned their traditional colors of ornament; a mere glance would fill one's vision with vivid hues of gold and crimson – chocolate and tangerine. The very air had a clean, crisp quality to it, and had dropped significantly in temperature.  
The days consisted of a cloudless cerulean sky – never in want of a breeze – with the fading chemical trails of aircraft existing alongside and in equal ratio to the rapidly-vanishing contrails of their creators' smaller, privately owned cousins. The sunlight descended in brilliant beams, equally dispersing itself throughout the land and sky, though its warmth was in constant contrast to the chilled air that made it seem to have a lesser influence than in the summer.  
In fact, the yellow orb had lost any sense of obnoxiousness that it had possessed in great abundance only a month earlier. Now, it was even welcomed, as it was the last indicator of a summer gone by, and a quiet reassurance that although winter was indeed coming, it would take quite a while to arrive. For as long as the sun was present to shine onto the humans down below – who were receiving it with open arms – the cold season would lay off, withholding its overcast skies and rainy weather.  
In the afternoons the deep, bright blue of the sky faded to a softer and more subdued shade verging on pastel. Wispy rows of clouds would float along on some unseen air current, passing above the world at a leisurely pace. The composition of the clouds was always something to be questioned, as it was unclear just how much of the white substance was some mystical mixture of air and chemicals – as was aforementioned – and how much was genuine, naturally-occurring vapor. The most sure of theorists would claim that it was all suspicious aerosol, but to the unobservant or uninformed mind, the nature of the skies wasn't something to dwell upon. The atmosphere was something over the heads of most, and wasn't often taken into consideration; the afternoons weren't for thinking, anyway. Afternoons were a time for enjoyment, in any of its many forms.  
There were a variety of ways in which to escape from cares during an autumn afternoon. One could go on a stroll through the park - or just down the street – to calm any underlying anxiety that remained from the great and small endeavors of life. One could also relax by reading – indulging in great literature was as sure of a way to calm one as any. There was also an excellent selection of physical manners in which to find solace, such as the consumption of a hot cup of tea. Beyond that laid several other forms of relaxation – music, writing, observation – but those were available only to people that had time.  
Time was not something that Dipper had much of nowadays. Being a college-bound high school senior in California, he didn't exactly have a surplus of leisure. What time he did have away from classes, homework, and studying for the aforementioned classes was spent with pleasure-studying, which was a term he was rather fond of using. It was a word he'd conjured quite a while back in order to describe his natural curiosity to a few friends – wait, no, some of Mabel's friends. She was the social butterfly, whereas Dipper's habitual awkward nature meant that his best pal was always knowledge. And hey, knowledge is power. School House Rock can't be wrong, right?  
It's been six years since that wacky summer in Gravity Falls, and Dipper supposed that was where it all began. Before then he had been really into mystery novels – the Nancy Drew series, for example, and later selections from Dean Koontz – but those few months spent at that lovely nowhere in the heart of Oregon is what allowed him to harbor an intense appreciation for the Unknown.  
The Unknown. That was another term created by Dipper, though he didn't use it aloud very much. It was simple – the Unknown was a broad term used to describe all the information in the world that had yet to make it into Dipper's head. The Unknown was everything that its name implied, but applied to a vast area of things, be it related or not.  
This wasn't to say that Dipper wasn't smart. No, the kid was clever; immensely so. That was how he'd earned enough scholarship money to keep from getting a loan that he'd be paying off well into his thirties. In fact, most would say that the classroom was where Dipper excelled the most. His SAT and ACT scores were something to be both feared and admired, and at the moment he had no competition for the top spot in his class. His GPA was over a 4.0, and he already had a valedictorian speech sketched out. There was no disputing that Dipper had brains, but there was always something more to learn.  
That being said, not all of it was valuable. Information is a great thing to have, but not all facts are created equal. For example, Dipper could learn the complex art of being a professional basket weaver. At present he had no idea how a basket was made – aside from the fact that it was indeed _woven_ – and the intricacies were something that he definitely wasn't acquainted with, and thus was under the label of the Unknown. However, it would be silly for him to waste his time moving to Central America to undertake the daunting task of attaining such traditional skills. It was Dipper's opinion that he'd be much better off studying things of real importance (or whatever peaked his interest).  
That being said, information wasn't just judged by relevance. The applicability of knowledge was equally as important. Sure, someone who spit out random facts could be considered smart, but in what real-life situation would one be required to know that giraffes only have seven vertebrae? Aside from Jeopardy, that is. Oh Jesus Christ did Dipper love Jeopardy, but let's return to the subject at hand.  
Dipper yearned for information, yes. But he wanted after valuable, useful information. Of course, he did have issues discerning what information would come in handy and what wouldn't – things such as survival training, or apocalypse preparedness, for example – but the majority of his time was spent studying things that he knew for a fact _would_ be useful, such as laws and languages.  
Dipper's natural inclination towards mystery-solving hadn't diminished. In all actuality, it had grown. The only issue was that it wasn't particularly utilitarian to be interested in enigmas. He used to dream of having his own paranormal hunting show when he was a kid – but therein lies the issue; _when he was a kid._ Here he was a couple of semesters from facing university (and the world) head on, and he was still interested in ghosts and mythical beasts.  
But they weren't so mythical, were they? He had experienced gnomes, zombies, and even demons alike. In fact, they had played a key part in Dipper's childhood, even long after that insane summer in Oregon. It had given him the assurance that there were bigger and greater things than him in the world. Far, far greater. It showed him that sometimes – hell, even arguably _most_ times – the whispered rumors of beasts and creatures in the night had a valid basis, and were very, very real. There were even things inconceivable to man that existed on this plane or another. But, perhaps more importantly, that summer had pulled him closer to his sister.  
Unfortunately, that didn't last forever. High school took a number on their relationship. At some point – around the beginning of junior year, specifically – Dipper realized that the world was weighing down upon him, and he would begin to face responsibility like he never had before. He had to focus on his grades so that he could get admitted into a good university, and he had to excel there in order to get grants for subsequent years of education, which he needed to have the qualifications to fulfill a position in which he would hopefully lead a prosperous life. He was playing the difficult, unforgiving game of life, and if he wanted to come out on top, he had to begin utilizing his hand early.  
Mabel didn't seem to get it. She was more focused on the glitz and glam of high school. Social circles hadn't previously been much of a big deal to her, and she had been content with being on the dorky side. In Gravity Falls, there was a clear social hierarchy at which she was towards the bottom. People like Pacifica Northwest were at the top, obviously.  
Pacifica.  
That girl had always known her superiority. She was well-aware of her socioeconomic advantages, and she wasn't afraid to use her influence for her own good. As it turned out, that trait was universal. There were similar children in high school back at home, but there was one key difference. They were older, and weren't half as decent as Pacifica when she was young. They'd gone their entire lives without being lowered to the standards of others – without having any sympathy for who they considered to be commoners. At least Dipper had been able to get through to Pacifica – to see her as a person, and be seen as a person. That was a luxury that the rich kids in Piedmont didn't possess.  
Of course, age also affected Mabel's desires. She became more interested in the higher social classes. Perhaps it was because the lower circles of kids didn't stick together like Candy and Grenda. They didn't all share a common interest. They were independent people, for the most part, who had other redeeming factors to make up for their lack of popularity.  
Dipper, for instance, had his formidable intelligence and class ranking.  
But what did Mabel have?  
Well…  
Thoughts like that were better left unfinished. Mabel had ample opportunity to excel in her classes like Dipper. She just didn't possess the will or the drive, and that was her loss. It was her own fault. In this day and age, ignorance was a choice. Both Dipper and Mabel had internet access at home and on their phones. It was the greatest source of information known to man, and it was at their fingertips. If Mabel had really wanted to be an academic champion like Dipper, she could do so by simply using the tools which she already possessed. Perhaps she should take a trip to Kahn Academy instead of using Instagram for… whatever people used Instagram for.  
Dipper wasn't even quite sure what Instagram was, actually. But that wasn't important.  
It was saddening to see rampant disinterest towards learning among people his age. They cared more about likes on pictures or their favorite celebrity's most recent tweet. Never mind the fact that there were literally college courses that they could be taking online for free. Pop stars were more important.  
Mabel was caught up in that crowd, and Dipper didn't know how to help her.  
But he didn't have the time, either.  
Dipper had to focus on his own academic endeavors. He couldn't spend time scolding his sister and trying to set her straight.  
He had his grades in order, and he was studying the correct things in his free time. But there was still that struggle with mysteries. Dipper knew that researching things of that nature wouldn't assist him at all when it came to getting into college and attaining a vocation of quality. Ghost hunters on the T.V. faked everything, just like cryptid-seekers. Finding Bigfoot? Obviously they're not, because they wouldn't have a show otherwise. It's not about actually digging deep and finding the root of mysteries. It's about the ratings and money that come from manipulating people's natural curiosity.  
But what did he learn from Gravity Falls?  
That's right.  
Dipper couldn't help himself at times. Perhaps this was just his vice. Everyone was entitled to one or two. Perhaps this was his useless distraction. It served no function, but damn, he loved doing it. Researching and attempting to solve mysteries was to him what One Direction was to Mabel. He was captivated by them – mysteries, that is; not British boybands – and he obsessed over them in private. However, he possessed a shame in it that Mabel didn't harbor towards her fixations, and that was another key difference between the two that drove them apart. Dipper recognized just how stupid and silly his interest was. Mabel saw hers as nothing less than pragmatic.  
Dipper liked to think that there was something better to his obsession, though. It was somehow superior to others. There was merit to it despite it being a fruitless practice. It encouraged curiosity, which was the driving force of humanity's advancement. While others obsessed over T.V. shows and the words of famous people – which only encouraged mindless consumption – Dipper's interest in mysteries coerced critical thought and questions, and enhanced problem-solving skills.  
That was how he liked to justify it, anyway.  
When it came down to it, that's all he was – curious. Dipper wanted to know about the creatures he'd only heard rumors about. He wanted to learn how the universe really worked. He wanted to know the stories and intentions of people that were buried beneath layers of time, misinformation, and mystery.  
But what was currently grabbing his attention seemed to be the opposite, as the intentions were stated blatantly before his very eyes.

 _Hello. We are looking for highly intelligent individuals. To find them, we have devised a test. There is a message hidden in the image. Find it, and it will lead you on the road to finding us. We look forward to meeting the few who will make it all the way through. Good luck._

Dipper stared at his inbox in confusion. Attached was a file – the name of which consisted entirely of numbers. He didn't know what to make of it. The email was sent from the address _3301flfdgd ,_ which indicated that the user was from the deep web. Dipper had been around the internet long enough to know that Sigaint was an email provider for the deep web, which meant that the sender could be anyone, and probably had reason to hide their identity.  
That of course brought him to a pressing question. Did he want to open the file? It could very well be some malicious file whose sole purpose was to cripple and disable his computer. It could easily wreak havoc upon him within minutes. Did he really want to take that chance?  
If things had gone any differently in his life, perhaps he wouldn't have clicked on it. If he had stayed in his hometown for that one summer, his yearning for adventure wouldn't have properly developed. His risk and reward-inclined palate would have never grown, and he wouldn't be as curious as he was today. However, if there's one thing he's learned from Gravity Falls, it was that you always open the file.


	9. A Response

The classroom was quiet, and Edd was enjoying every moment of it. When surrounded by rambunctious, hyper-active teens, even a second of peace was hard-earned. Luckily, Edd had essentially hit the jackpot with his English teacher this year. There were many types of educators found within the Peach Creek school system; there were the apathetic instructors who sat at their desks and gave out worksheets, then there were the overly-enthusiastic teachers that tried much too hard to make their subject fun and appealing to youth. There were also the rare dry, sardonic mentors with a pessimistic outlook but a good sense of humor nonetheless.  
Then there was Mrs. Hampton.  
She was the stereotypical worst case scenario for most students - excluding Edd, for whom she was the ideal instructor.  
Mrs. Hampton was perhaps the strictest woman that Edd had ever had the fortune to happen across. Her mere presence elicited the undivided attention of anyone and everyone within a half mile radius. Her countenance was invariably stern, playing out over a face wrinkled with age. Her hair was always pulled back into a tight bun – a ball of dark gray and tainted white from which not a single hair had the audacity to stray. Her outfits were variants of the same style of dress. Pressed, modest, and neat.  
She was truly a worthy ruler for her class, who she seemed keen on controlling with an iron fist. There was no surer captain on this planet, and no leader more steadfastly confident in his unwavering power than Mrs. Hampton.  
There was to be no unauthorized talking, as it was considered rude and disruptive to the learning process. This was perhaps the most important rule of Mrs. Hampton's uncompromising doctrine. Never one to shy away from enforcement, violators who spoke out of turn and without raising their hands would receive detention for insubordination.  
But this would not be an issue with Edd. No, he enjoyed rule-following, and when he was rewarded with silence he was doubly motivated.  
Unfortunately, this was not the case for everyone. For some bizarre reason that Edd wasn't able to comprehend, his fellow classmates were rather vexed by Mrs. Hampton's paramount rule of perpetual silence.  
They tended to show their displeasure by making noise in any possible manner aside from speaking. Coughing, tapping, shifting, breathing heavily – Edd heard it all. Thus the room wasn't truly silent, but it was quiet, and that was all he supposed he could really ask for.  
That was until a certain classmate decided to break the rule.  
"Psst. Double D."  
Edd glanced up from his notebook, where he had been happily diagramming a list of sentences. His gaze was redirected towards his neighbor, who was staring at him in return with a rather bored expression. Edd could only assume that his own was one of shock or disdain. Perhaps both.  
"Shh," he murmured in as quiet of a whisper as he could conjure, "We aren't supposed to talk, Eddy…!"  
The other boy merely shrugged, appearing disinterested with the notion of adhering to Mrs. Hampton's rigid guidelines. His posture was deplorable – he leant back with his shoulder blades on the back of the chair, his legs spread wide in the ultimate show of blatant disregard for anything even vaguely resembling proper etiquette.  
Edd, however, was the epitome of the model student. He was well-aware of the manner in which he carried himself; every detail was taken into thorough consideration, even down to the manner in which he sat. His feet were flat upon the floor and roughly shoulder-width apart. His back was straight and off the chair, his dress shirt freshly-pressed and creaseless beneath his coffee cardigan. Edd was in stark contrast to his unkempt friend, despite their shared nickname.  
Of course, this was something that he didn't really mind – their similar names were what sparked their initial friendship. Albeit, when Edd was first introduced to the neighborhood, the manner in which he was greeted was less than friendly. Though not explicitly malicious, Eddy was deceptive when he tricked Edd out of his money.  
That was quite an odd day, however, what with the moving to the opposite side of the country. Edd could still recall the culture shock of moving up north. He was bewildered by the cool climate and the diverse accents – beforehand, he had never realized that he possessed a slight drawl. But that was quick to disappear, and as Edd spent more and more time in Peach Creek, he found that assimilation came easily.  
It was almost natural back when he was young and malleable. Now that he'd grown up a bit, he wasn't quite as impressionable, and such a transition would be unthinkable. Luckily his parents showed no intentions of moving again, and it was certain that he would graduate at Peach Creek. This reassurance wasn't undervalued, because Edd knew without a shadow of a doubt that he would never be near as fortunate in finding friends.  
Even if they weren't the best influence.  
"Do you really want to just follow everything that bitch says? That's bogus."  
Edd frowned as Eddy insulted their mentor and the policies that were making for quite a pleasant classroom experience. He paused to formulate a response, casting a wary glance towards the teacher as he did so. She wasn't looking, but defiling the rules behind her back made Edd feel guilty and abhorrent. He detesting doing such a thing, but it appeared that he had to violate a law in order to prevent further infractions. It was tough moral decisions such as these that stressed Edd out and made him on edge for some time afterwards. He certainly didn't appreciate being placed in this situation, and he was going to make his friend well-aware of his contempt.  
"That is our _teacher,_ Eddy!" he chastised in a breathless exclamation, "She's wise, and only trying to provide the best learning environment because she cares about our education! Do not insult her so."  
Eddy breathed a heavy sigh in response, one that was much louder than the entirety of their fervent conversation thus far, and chanced earning the attention of Mrs. Hampton. Edd held his breath, observing the teacher's desk in ashamed trepidation. If it was revealed that he was taking part in such hooliganism, he would be marked as a troublemaker.  
That thought was something that crawled out of the depths of Edd's nightmares. He had to separate himself from the others; he had to prove that he was a _student,_ and not some easily-excited teenager with the attention span of a squirrel. There were far too many half-witted fools running amok, and Edd prided himself in being distinguished as a dignified young man of intellect and maturity – one that respected the law of a classroom and willingly ceded to an instructor's command for education's sake.  
If even a small bit of that was taken away, Edd would be forced to reconsider his moral character and life thus far with an uncertainty of which he had never previously experienced.  
Luckily, that delicate facet would be preserved for the time being, as Mrs. Hampton was so engrossed in grading papers that she didn't think much of Eddy's sharp exhalation. Edd was relieved to no end, but he didn't have a chance to scold Eddy further before the other continued.  
"You're such a pushover, Double D. You should stop doing everything that people tell you to do." Eddy crossed his arms, staring at him with the same apathetic visage that had lasted throughout the course of their conversation. "What's the answer to number five?"  
There was a short, almost astonished pause as Edd stared at him blankly.  
"Excuse me?"  
Eddy rolled his eyes, and for a heart-wrenching moment it appeared that he would sigh again, but Edd was once again spared by a whim. "Number five. What is it? The fuck is a… _vernacular?"_  
Eddy squinted at his worksheet as if changing his visual perspective would prove useful in attaining the definition of a word so clearly over his head.  
Edd frowned in disdain. Eddy was still working on a sheet from two days ago, and from the looks of it he still had quite a ways to go. Although academic dishonesty was far from something that Edd condoned, it wasn't considered cheating if Edd simply defined the word in question, thus opening the pathway for the inquiry to at least be understood. Besides, it could mean an end to Eddy's pestering and subsequent rule-breaking.  
"A vernacular is someone's typical manner of speaking, and it can vary drastically from person to person."  
There was another pause as Edd observed his friend, looking for any hint of recognition in his face. Sadly, there was not even a visible attempt made to learn. Not that Eddy was a thoughtful person regularly – he was far from Socrates – but there was a dull and uncaring element in his eyes, one that was even less urgent than normal.  
A staccato exhalation emanated from Edd – one that was faint in volume, but efficient in professing his exasperation. He turned away from Eddy, looking upwards as he became aware of the room once more. A few of the other students were observing them intently; they'd noticed the hushed conversation, but they would not dare to comment on it.  
Grateful for that fact, Edd returned to his own work, determined to not be distracted again for the duration of the class period.

It was lunch time before Edd saw Eddy again, this time accompanied by the familiar tall-statured third Ed. The two appeared from the line unceremoniously, and sat at Edd's table after spotting him alone. This isn't to insinuate that Edd was lonely – he had a plethora of friends and acquaintances, but he had removed himself from them in order to enjoy the passage of the meal in solitude.  
But the other Eds appeared to have a different idea in mind.  
Edd looked up at the two as they sat across from him, Eddy collapsing upon his chair and Ed descending with matching grace.  
"Hey Sockhead," the former spoke as he manspreaded the fuck out of his chair, "what're you doing?"  
Edd glanced towards his page, where he'd been wrapping up some extra credit for an algebra assignment not due for several more weeks. He gave a nonchalant shrug, followed by a soft click as he closed his pen. "Are you insinuating interest?" There was an almost snippy quality to his voice – he wouldn't descend into being rude, nor would he sound distinctly curt – but his demeanor obviously wasn't as cordial as usual.  
Although he wasn't one to hold a grudge, Edd was wary around Eddy. The subtle edge to his voice was there merely to let the other know that he was on thin ice.  
But this was a signal that Eddy did not pick up on – neither was the question. The inquiry floated above his head, and was thus ignored with unenthusiastic disregard.  
Ed, however, wasn't satisfied with letting those big words hang in the air.  
"What does that mean, Double D?"  
Now it was Edd's time to heave a sigh – it was acceptable now that they were out of classroom territory. "Nothing, Ed," he responded, still sounding downtrodden, "don't worry about it." He then made to return to his aforementioned work, but Eddy stopped him.  
"You're not supposed to be working. Jesus Christ, it's lunch." He leaned back, staring at his tray skeptically, "Or, that's what they call it. I don't know if this is even _food."_ He took his spork – the district couldn't really afford to buy both spoons _and_ forks – and proceeded to prod a browned disk that appeared to be an attempt at some sort of fried meat. Be it fish, beef, pork, or fowl wasn't discernable, and the object was too tough to impale with the small plastic spears of Eddy's utensil.  
He soon stopped trying altogether, placing his dented and misshapen spork on the table with a contemptuous expression.  
Edd opened a brown paper bag, the type of which he always stored his meals in, and produced an apple. He tore his sandwich in half, then gave the sustenance to his friend.  
Eddy took it without a thank you – he never thanked anyone for anything – but the slight gratefulness he presented was interpreted; a small upward adjustment of the head, and a brief shared glance. Edd was about to ask Ed if he too required some alternative form of nourishment, but the guy was already tearing into his ambiguous food. His strategy for consuming it appeared to be simple – drown it in as much gravy as could be attained from the lunch ladies.  
It was an amusing sight to behold, honestly.  
Four years had passed since junior high, and hardly anything had changed. Eddy was still thinking up scams on a regular basis, though he acted on them less often. Edd was impeccably busy with his studies, which was no length astray from business as usual. As for Ed? Well, he was still Ed – a kind-hearted, lovable oaf with a taste for gravy.  
For a while it seemed that they were almost back in middle school, but when Edd looked at it closely, he was forced to acknowledge the differences. Eddy was a cynical stoner that managed to escape being held back by mere chance, and Ed was a meat-headed jock with the grades to match.  
Edd himself was more concerned with scholarships and the quest for academic excellence than anything, which meant that he was often stretched thin over long periods of time.  
Yea, these days weren't near as leisurely as those gone by.  
But Edd wouldn't have to endure them for much longer. He had eight months until graduation, where he would undoubtedly emerge as valedictorian. For nearly eight years Edd had the title in the bag; the esteemed golden sash basically had his name on it. He was at the top of his class by a wide margin, one that didn't show any sign of closing whatsoever.  
Graduation was far from something that Edd was concerned about – but the same could not be said for the other two. And, although the other Eds were his friends, Edd didn't have the time to be their baby-sitter. They were probably going to go nowhere. They'd more than likely remain in Peach Creek for a long while after high school.  
Edd couldn't wait to be out of the cul-de-sac and into the real world, contributing to society in a benevolent and influential manner. First he had to attain a higher education, and… Well, he'd recently sent an application letter to Princeton. He was keeping his fingers crossed.  
But his two closest friends – the only other outcasts of sorts; one for stupidity, the other for crudeness, and he for intellect – would unfortunately fight to keep their heads above water in a professional setting. If Edd kept playing lifeguard with them, he'd end up drowning as well. They were poison, and he had to remove himself in order to appear more presentable – especially now that a top university would have him under scrutiny.  
There was no room for error here. He had to be elite in order to make it into an elite university. Perception was exceedingly important, which was why Edd was so irritated with Eddy at that stunt in the classroom. If they had been caught, Mrs. Hampton would have placed them under her strict disciplinary action, which involved issuing an office referral in a horrible form of swift justice.  
Edd's record was clean as a whistle – cleaner, even, because a whistle was typically full of spit. There was no way that it would be soiled now, not when he was finally on the home stretch. But he couldn't just sever ties with two guys he'd grown up with. They were the only ones that always accepted him – they'd all bonded over their similar names and less-than-esteemed social statuses. It would be ungrateful to forsake them, but distancing himself was necessary.  
Yet again, Edd was faced with a tough moral decision, but this was much heavier than a simple manner of forbidden conversation. This was a major shift, and although Edd didn't want to think about it, he knew that he would probably have to hurt some feelings.  
"Um, D? Earth to Sockhead…" Eddy snapped his fingers in front of Edd's eyes, effectively pulling him out of his meditative state of mind.  
Edd blinked rapidly as he focused on Eddy, dropping his pen – he'd been staring into space with the course of thought.  
"You okay man?" Eddy asked. Edd thought that he could almost detect a very faint hint of concern.  
"No. Both of you are hindering me in my academic career, and you're both hopeless causes. We must part ways immediately."  
Only he didn't say that.  
Instead, Edd responded, "Oh. Yes, I'm fine." He averted his gaze, choosing to look at anything other than the two sources of deep emotional conflict.

That was the entire nature of things at the moment. Dodging conflict. Procrastinating. Edd was doing whatever he could to distract himself from what he knew he had to do. In any and every other situation, Edd would not delay. He approached everything with a cool-headed sense of logic that ruled out any aspect of prolonging what was necessary.  
So why was it that he couldn't execute things now? Why was he hesitating the moment that emotions were involved? Why did he have to be so weak? Irrational? Stupid?  
Why was he currently on his bed checking his email inbox when he should be texting his toxic friends to make them aware of his many grievances?  
A distraction graced his eyes – one which brought his train of thought to a screeching halt.  
He'd received an email from an unfamiliar address. _3301flfdgd ._  
Sigaint. Wasn't that a deep web email provider? Yes, Edd had recalled seeing it in some indie news outlet a while back… Well, no good could come of this. There were too many bad things associated with the deep web. Yes, some very intelligent people accessed and made use of that part of the internet – almost everyone who was on it was clever, really – but many of them were of horrid moral backgrounds and misused the technology for their own sick purposes.  
Edd couldn't be mixed in with that crowd. Just like in class with Eddy, he could be seen as guilty by association. Only this would be much, much worse; what if the email was from a pedophile and contained images that he'd rather not see? Simply accessing that kind of material on his computer could land him in hot water.  
He looked at the subject line, which in itself consisted of a single word.  
 _Hello._  
That didn't sound too malicious.  
It wouldn't be too bad to just open it, right?  
Edd bit his lip, thinking it over. Some of the worst viruses originated from the deep web. His phone could be hacked in a matter of seconds, and sensitive information such as his name and location could be stolen and placed into the wrong hands. And, as was aforementioned, it could be deviant pornography that would phase him for the rest of his life and result in his incarceration.  
However, should either of these be the case, he was legally obligated to report it. As long as he did so, he wouldn't land in any trouble. Perhaps he _should_ open the email, so that he could be the guinea pig and potentially sacrifice himself for the good of others.  
With that in mind, Edd tentatively selected the message.

 _Hello. We are looking for highly intelligent individuals. To find them, we have devised a test. There is a message hidden in the image. Find it, and it will lead you on the road to finding us. We look forward to meeting the few who will make it all the way through. Good luck._

A file was attached, the name of which was only a jumbled mix of numbers.  
There was no way Edd was going to open that. No, no, no. His adrenaline was already flowing through his veins from opening the message itself, and his heart was beating rapidly from the idea of what might happen if he downloaded anything from this stranger.  
The message itself was peculiar, and Edd would be lying if he were to say that he wasn't perplexed. However, he didn't have time for this shenanigans, and he didn't want to be involved with anyone who felt the need to send such a statement from the anonymity shield of the deep web.  
He went a bit against his better judgement in formulating a reply.

 _Hello. I do not know who you are, nor do I wish to become acquainted with you in this manner. I am sorry if I'm coming off as rude, but I do not approve of your means of communication. If you would like to contact me further, I would be more than happy to converse with you through a regular, standard email provider._  
 _Although I commend you for your search of brilliant individuals, I'm afraid that I do not wish to participate. I have not, nor do I plan to open the file that you have sent me, as there is not enough description, and frankly, I do not know what lies therein._  
 _I'm sorry, but I'm also sure that you can understand how this is a bit too risky and shady for a cautiously law-abiding citizen such as me to jump into._

Edd sent the email, then opened another tab with the intentions of browsing Reddit for a while. But what he couldn't account for was the quiet ringing of his mobile device that signaled another new message.  
Surprised, Edd quickly returned to his email, staring at the response from the same stranger. It was received in a matter of seconds after Edd had sent his reply, which suggested that the stranger wasn't responding to Edd, but rather sending a follow-up message.  
But the contents of this message were so utterly strange that Edd couldn't tell what it was meant as regardless.

 _You must evolve. You can't run from time._


End file.
